


Per Ardua Ad Astra

by helo572



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Gen, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, I swear, Radiation Sickness, Rescue, Seizures, Trapped
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-13
Updated: 2018-04-13
Packaged: 2019-04-22 07:04:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14303421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helo572/pseuds/helo572
Summary: Trapped and left to die on radiation-stricken space station, Spock clings to a dying McCoy.





	Per Ardua Ad Astra

**Author's Note:**

> dishing out the wips at the speed of light! enjoy <3

It is almost poetic, some sad scene out of a Terran movie. Spock sits, cradling a weakening McCoy against his own stuttering chest as the radiation sickness slowly sets into both their bones. The doctor is sheened in sweat, trembling, weak and feverish.

 

Incoherent eyes push against his closed lids, which Spock keeps covered with his hand, no matter the intimacy of the contact. Opening them would be too dizzying for the ailing doctor, as first, the sun shines fiercely through the massive glass window to cast their joined shadows long and dark on the floor, and second, Spock is aware how hard the room will spin for him as radiation sickness claims him. McCoy is almost seizing in his arms, a constant shaking that does not relent on the doctor’s tired body, enough Spock fears he could descend into proper fitting, which is where his knowledge of medical care will end. Keeping him safe and secure as his body fails is all that scope of knowledge, anyway, hence the other hand which cards soothingly through the doctor’s wet hair.

 

He can feel McCoy’s mind already retreating, shutting down as his body is torn apart on the molecular level, cells unable to reproduce at the rate they are being destroyed by the sun. His hands so close to the dying man is such, both a blessing to him as he seizes, and a curse, as Spock feels double the exhaustion settle into his bones. It may be that McCoy dies here today, beneath his fingertips. That, and he may fail the Captain; he promise he made to keep his best friend and Chief Medical Officer safe.

 

Not knowing the Captain’s position is killing them both. The doctor’s ranting before had dragged him to an early grave in Spock’s own tired arms, and the banging on the door, and the destruction of the broken console which kept them trapped here as they fell further and further into the dying sun. Help may not be coming. For once in their lives, Captain Kirk may not swoop in to save them in time, and it may be that their silhouettes are to perish here against the deadly sun, entwined together, with some sad Terran music echoing until the credits roll.

 

_ Please _ , thinks Spock, with his hands still on the doctor, projecting to him, the last ounces of his hope and strength,  _ do not let it be a sad Terran movie. _ And, more importantly,  _ Do not let Jim fail his charges and have his two trusted, best friends die together. _ Spock knows the man inside-and-out, four years into their five mission, which is far too much familiarity to be certain he will never recover. Notably, it will be worse if he finds them like this, curled up together facing the sun which killed them, trapped and alone.

 

McCoy finally settles in his arms, hitched breathes replaced by inaudible whimpers, only pitched by his strained, advanced hearing. That, or it may be the emptiness of the silence, their pain and dying echoing off the steel walls, and reflected back at them in the viewing glass for the sun. They cannot escape this. Spock sighs;  _ it is a Terran movie after all _ . He will allow himself such a human comfort, for the doctor’s sake, and perhaps for his listing sanity pressed up against him. Even the fingers moving through his hair have his human heart burning, all too willing to lean on the opposite site of him. Giving in is simple, especially at times such as this.

 

It means every pained noise from the doctor’s throat is a stab into his stuttering chest, and each lasting tremble pulled from his exhausted limbs is a dagger through his heart. Him giving up on saving them both was bad enough, finally sagging against Spock like a deadweight, resigning, “M’sorry, Spock. So sorry.” He looks meek, embarrassed, ashamed. Guilty. “Looks like you’re gonna have t’ watch me die.” Watching him die is arguably much worse, knowing there is nothing he can do besides comfort him closely, to be  _ human _ for him so he does not die in pain.

 

_ I’m sorry _ , Spock thinks again, also, and continues to think until his heart aches so badly he can taste it rising in his throat. He hates it. Completely despises it. He would trade places with McCoy in a heartbeat, simply for a good man to avoid going through this. Yet, it is inevitable for him anyway, simply taking longer as his Vulcan body works harder to fight the radiation infection. Or, his logical mind supplies him, it would be worse for McCoy to have to watch him die first. He would have the knowledge but not the tools to save him. For Spock, at least McCoy can resign himself to unconsciousness, to being tucked safely against Spock’s chest so he is comfortable, not to worry about Jim any longer.

 

Or, perhaps it is this whole situation is  _ fucked _ as the doctor would say and there is no best case scenario for who is in the other’s arms, slowly fading away. Logically, there was no better scenario: he or McCoy dying first. Statistically, they would both die anyway, eventually, with survival at an impossibly low rate of 0.03% without immediate rescue. The doctor did not have long. Neither did Spock’s aching, human heart.

 

The station suddenly lurches, not uncommon as it slowly falls into the sun with the failing gravity supports. It grows exponentially worse the closer they get to the heat of the dying star, where the light is unbearable and the radiation is at unsurvivable levels. But, then it lurches again, the old steel groaning under the force. Spock lets his thoughts take him:  _ let us die quickly. _

 

Except, his stomach drops out from underneath him, where the old station rises out of its path to doom, like a mock turbo lift. All that is missing is the dancing white lights, which if he drops his chin far enough to his chest, he can see approaching on the edges of his vision. If it is an after effect from the contact with McCoy, or simply his own mind shutting down on him, it is unclear. Yet, it is dangerous, with his heart starting to hope the higher the station climbs from the sun. McCoy still struggles for breath beneath him, undisturbed by the commotion, with pain etched clearly onto his lined face. Spock cannot let himself hope - Vulcans do not  _ hope _ . Yet, his heart yearns, stutters in his chest and he holds McCoy tightly, beckoning him to hold on, that perhaps it is not over yet.

 

And there it is, banging at the door which traps them here, hollow and loud against his overtime senses, yelling, footsteps, all which jar continually into his failing control. The human bleeds out: he drops his head to McCoy’s chest, listing to the doctor’s own heart struggle against his chest, and he hopes it is simply not the radiation creeping into is mind to twist and tease. At their contact, the doctor trembles, but Spock calms him still, soothes him, putting the both of their hearts to work against the hope banging against the door. He holds McCoy’s head still as he jerks suddenly, limbs flailing as if they were missing bone, to protect him against this last enemy.

 

Tired fingers dig into the curve of the doctor’s jaw, hooked underneath his chin, and another joins in on the nape of his neck as he seizes. Quickly, it becomes violent, uncontrollable. He is almost impossible to touch now, both feverishly hot and unbearably loud, his mind screaming as his body shuts down. Spock grits his teeth and holds on, shielding him when the entire room explodes, bursting into grating noise. His heart burns in his chest, so that he finally casts away from the seizing doctor and the awful yellow-orange of the sun which killed him.

 

Yet, the blinding yellow is relentless. It crowds his whitening vision, and words littering the air he is afraid to grasp else he lose his hold on McCoy. But then there is blue, bright and impossible blue, exploding into his vision with such an impossibility he has to gasp. It engulfs the yellow and chases away the white. Wide and scared, endlessly attentive, relentless, as the blue follows Spock to the ends of space. Finally, a challenge to the consuming blackness which haunts his dreams sometimes, a fact he would never admit to another living soul. It is human to hope, to dream, to cradle Doctor McCoy like this.

 

He blinks against his engulfed senses, and then it all explodes - his heart and his ears.

 

“Spock,  _ please _ .” Captain Kirk is here, his bright blue eyes fully blown and terrified, his voice wavering. They are face to face, nearly forehead-to-forehead, breathing the same air from shared breaths. Spock rakes in a gasp and it is then he realises Kirk is holding on,  _ tightly _ , to the sides of his face with his bare hands. The contact is dizzying and very, very blue. An anchor. “I need you to let go of Bones. He needs help and I promise, I will do everything to make sure he gets it. Just let me have him, I’ll keep him safe.”

 

The doctor, there is he, having a full-blown seizure in Spock’s trembling arms. Kirk’s eyes dart impossibly fast between his dying doctor and ailing First Officer, watching, waiting, calculating. Counting. Bones is dying. 

 

Bones, McCoy’s bones, aching ones which rattle as he fits against Spock’s chest, and with each breath he chokes in. There is radiation biting at them, echoes of death, the blinding sun -

 

“ _ Spock _ .”

 

He relents. The blue takes him, and also McCoy’s dying breaths after they carefully pry him from Spock’s arms. His fingers feel cold, empty, and they shake like the doctor as he meets Captain Kirk’s eyes again.

 

“Spock,” he says again, breathless, still terrified, still a Starfleet Captain, still his best, most trusted friend. He hasn’t let go of his face, but he knows his trembling hands have been noticed, the crack in his chasis of control. Thank goodness, Kirk is not judging him. “Hey, Spock. With me?”

 

Bare hands anchor him to the station, prevent him from chasing the impossible blue to the edges of his vision. There is blue with Doctor McCoy too, a well away, by hands more capable than his own. They wear masks, but not of concealed judgement or feigned concern,  _ real _ masks. Plastic covers them from head to toe, blue and suffocating. Yet, Jim’s bare hands calm him; warm skin anchors him as his own body lists into the dark. It is not safe for him to be here.

 

“Jim -” he reels, but the room spins. That blinding blue follows him, hands firm on his shoulders now, words running through the air again as if they were liquid.

 

“Take it easy, take it easy,” is Kirk’s litany when his head breaks the surface of that blue ocean, blinking. “It’s okay, Spock. Bones is gonna be okay. You’re gonna be okay.”

 

The words wash over him: his Captain’s genuine, raw concern radiating off him in waves and subsequent comfort. His thumb rubs circles on Spock’s shoulders where he holds him, and he sits in front of him, blue eyes for nobody but him. The ache pierces his heart, the dizzying kindness Jim publicly displays to him, unlike the relentless heat of the irradiated sun. It makes him forget his concerns in lieu of giving in, again, closing his eyes. He trusts Kirk will catch him - and he does.

 

“Whoa, whoa!” His Captain is warm, solid. “Spock? You okay? Spock!”

 

“Jim -” he croaks again, and feels Jim relax, tension leaving his chest as he exhales. The hand on his shoulder returns, but creeps down his back, rubbing small circles against his shirt. “There - there is…”

 

To his surprise, Captain Kirk huffs a laugh. “Radiation?” It rumbles out of his chest, an oddly comforting notion even as a strange and foreign sensation. “I know, but no way I could grab you like this with a big ass, ugly suit on.” He emphasises this by giving Spock a squeeze; they are hugging, his mind supplies him, pressed up against each other the same he and McCoy had been moments ago. Except, his Captain supports him this time, lets him lean on him. “And hey,” Jim adds, “Khan’s blood, that’s still gotta be good for something.”

 

If Spock were more conscious, the words would have immensely bothered him. His eyebrow would have demonstrated such a concern, Kirk would have caught it immediately and laughed, the sort where he bends over at the belly and grins so hard the room seems to get brighter. The vividness of the image is enough to pull his eyes closed, to relax against Kirk, to accept the beating of his human heart. To  _ hope _ . 

 

What does bother him, however, is his failing body. Even without the firm presence of the Captain before him, he knows he’s ailing quickly, slowly succumbing to unconsciousness like McCoy had done against him just hours before. The Captain notices, of course, and he murmurs something quiet and warm before that blue fully takes him.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading <3


End file.
